


Beautiful Sundays

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Severin is weird, pervert!Severin, socially awkward!Severin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severin Moran spots a captivating boy in the park and quickly becomes obsessed. Too bad the boy is twenty years younger than him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Sundays

The park was littered with tiny, round tables and small, metal chairs, and he chose a seat by a carousel because its French music was good to listen to. He performed a general scan, getting acquainted with the view, which included a lake, a great patch of grass for sunbathers, a young boy, and – Severin’s eyes returned to the boy. He was at a table identical to Severin’s, some meters ahead. Severin could not see his eyes, as his face was nearly submerged in the pages of a thick book, but he saw the fairness of his complexion, the messy sweep of dark hair, the cheekbones that hadn’t quite lost their boyish chub. 

This wasn’t the first time Severin’s attention had been caught by a young boy. Severin was – what, now? Thirty-eight? Christ. Thirty-eight and still looking at boys who couldn’t be more than sixteen. He remembered when he was younger, and would fancy girls and boys who were his age: seven, ten, thirteen. His attractions aged as he did, as was right, as it seemed to work for everyone else in the world. Then somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he realized that his taste had halted. It wasn’t until the spring of his first year at Oxford, when he was tasked with giving a campus tour to a group of Eton boys, that he realized his heart hadn’t hammered so excitedly since before he’d put his public school boy days behind. Time still passed, he still aged, but the allure of school uniforms and sweet, puerile features still sang as strongly as ever. 

He took out his own book and quickly opened it. But he hadn’t started it yet, and it was hard to start a book when something else was grabbing your attention. The music on the carousel had stopped, and his eyes flickered periodically to look up at the boy. He timed his stares, to not make them obvious; the boy’s gaze was directed away from him, and therefore he was safe, but he grew paranoid, suspecting that a passing stranger would see him, follow his gaze, and induce Severin’s past years of sexually deviant thoughts. 

Thoughts. They were only thoughts. And his thoughts had never hurt anyone, he was sure of it – there wasn’t a single sixteen year-old boy walking on this Earth who knew that Severin had ever harbored a secret, maddening want for him. 

Perhaps, then, it would be alright to look. 

The boy shifted his legs, uncrossing and re-crossing them. During this split-second movement Severin panicked, thinking the boy intended to get up and walk away. 

Although the boy had no such intentions, Severin realized it was possible for him to do so at any moment, and after he left Severin would likely never see him again. 

Severin set down his book. His gaze was harmless, but he needed to soak up this view as much as he could, to carve the sight indelibly across his memory. He felt like a thirsty man in a desert come across a rapidly drying riverbed: He needed to gorge himself on the water before it trickled away. 

The boy reached out a single finger and turned a page, like he was brushing away a strand of hair, or plucking a harp string very daintily. Severin’s lips parted, and he no longer timed his gazes, because there was nothing to time; he was simply staring, making no act of doing something else. 

The longer he stared the more magnificent the boy became: Flaws did not reveal themselves under scrutiny. He had a long, slender neck, and an overall slim, even sparrow-boned physique. Severin could imagine how the boy should be touched: Gently, like porcelain. He could imagine blowing on the back of that neck, sending goose bumps up that fair skin. How would the body feel against Severin’s, shivering in Severin’s lap? 

The boy suddenly lifted his gaze, and his eyes met Severin’s. 

Severin considered looking away, but it was too late. His staring was very obvious. It would only look suspicious to stop now. And, besides, the boy’s eyes were big and dark and gushing, and held an irresistible intensity. 

For one absolute, shining moment, Severin knew he would rise and walk over to the boy. He could feel it in his bones, although his limbs did not stir. Their eye contact didn’t break, and Severin remained immobile with stilled breath. 

Then the boy rose. It looked marvelously like he was heading Severin’s way. It took several seconds too long for Severin to realize that he was. 

The music started up on the carousel again, and it began to spin round. 

The boy brought his book with him; as he drew near, Severin glimpsed its title. 

“That’s one of my favorite novels,” Severin blurted, with the same intensity used to express conviction in Fate. 

“I’ve only just started.” The boy’s accent was Irish. For the first time, Severin realized that the boy was a person whose existence had not been conjured the moment Severin spotted him. 

“You should keep reading it,” Severin said. He pulled out the chair next to him, making sure that it was far enough away from his own that their legs would not brush against each other, that Severin would not be tempted by the boy’s body heat. 

The boy stilled, reasonably surprised by Severin’s disregard for convention. But what else could Severin do? In this situation, with his pounding heart threatening to send him on his knees in a love declaration, pulling out a chair was really the least dangerous course of action. 

The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Up close, it was not possible to delude oneself. Up close, he was still beautiful. 

Finally the boy smiled, seeming relieved, even, that he didn’t have to indulge a conversation. Perfect. Severin didn’t want to converse. What could he possibly have in common with a teenager? It was enough to watch as the boy sat down, re-crossed his legs, opened his book, set it on his lap, and began once more to read. 

Severin, too, resumed reading. The words were a jumble and his eyes skipped lines, bounced back. Every now and then he looked at the boy. It would be easier to glance up at him if they were seated across from one another, and not beside, but Severin suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of the boy being any farther away from him. 

The boy, once or twice, met Severin’s gaze, but mostly he kept reading. His lips were curved into a delicious smile. He seemed neither self-conscious nor flattered. Severin couldn’t fathom what he might be thinking. 

Eventually the boy rose. Severin said nothing, didn’t move. There was nothing he was able to do that wouldn’t be illegal, so it was best he be a statue. 

“Well – goodbye?” said the boy, and for the first time he fully revealed his confusion. 

Severin did nothing to clear things up. There was nothing to clear up – he was just an old, war-torn pervert in the park, and for some reason a teenage boy had chosen to humor him for one blessed afternoon. 

Severin said, “I’m here every Sunday.” It was a lie, but Severin would make it true. 

The boy nodded and waved, and was off. 

Severin marveled at how beautifully he walked. 

  


The next Sunday, they were back. Severin had waited alone at his table for over an hour, pretending he wasn’t waiting, pretending his book was riveting. The boy walked straight towards him, sitting across from Severin as if they had a date. 

A date. If Severin were twenty years younger, maybe they would. 

Severin didn’t say a word to the boy. No one could accuse Severin of corrupting him if he hadn’t even spoken to him. The boy smiled at him; he didn’t reciprocate. Smiles didn’t come easily to Severin, and whenever he wore them people seemed to get frightened. He didn’t want to frighten the boy. 

They sat and eventually parted like that, in silence, the boy’s smiles offered generously. 

Before he left, the boy said, “Every Sunday?” It took a second for Severin to remember what he meant. 

“Every Sunday,” Severin said. He said it like a promise.

  


“Will you talk to me, this time?” ‘This time’ was the sixth time, the sixth glorious Sunday. Severin would have expected a sixteen year-old boy to become tired of the routine faster. 

“Probably not,” Severin said honestly. What needed to be said? 

“Well, then I’ll just have to talk to you,” said the boy. He stretched out his hand. “My name is Richard.” 

Severin stared at the hand. Not once had they touched. In Severin’s mind? In Severin’s mind they were all over each other, clawing, kissing, sucking, thrusting, doubling the come that washed down his shower drain after each Sunday meeting. In real life? Severin was sick, twisted. Not a poison unless he was consumed, but shaking hands seemed dangerous. 

Still, he had to be polite. 

He grasped the boy’s – Richard’s – hand firmly, not daring to brush his fingers against Richard’s skin, to tell if it was soft or not (he knew, though, without testing, that it was). 

And Richard. What a banal name. The name of an insurance adjuster or a tax collector. Or an angelic sixteen year-old boy who reminded Severin of Persian beauties, of Alexander the Great’s beloved eunuch, the gorgeous beings of myth and fantasy. 

Severin loved it. 

“I’m Severin,” he said. An old man’s name; rusted. 

“Severin,” Richard almost whispered, and Severin realized that the name was news to him. New to him. Severin wondered what his name sounded like, to ears that hadn’t heard it every day for the last thirty-eight years. 

“Severin,” Richard said again, leaning forward; Severin, startled by how rapidly this lit up his own desire, leaned back. “Are you an artist?” 

Severin snorted. “Why would I be an artist?” 

“I thought.” Richard bit his lip. Severin savored the glimpse of his teeth, his bottom lip made red. “Because you stare at me like one. I thought, at first, that you wanted to paint me. Do you?” 

Severin wanted to devour him. 

“I don’t paint,” he said. “I’m not an artist.” 

“Right.” Richard straightened back in his chair. “Why, then - ?” 

But he stopped, seeing on Severin’s flat features that he wouldn’t get an answer. 

Severin wasn’t going to tell Richard about himself. His name was enough: Italian, ugly and ostentatious for an Englishman. Yet he was a veteran, which induced in civilians only pity, really, these days. He didn’t need a teenager’s pity. 

He did, however, have a question for Richard. 

“Why do you?” he asked. He gestured to Richard, the table, himself. The park, the carousel, their six Sundays. 

Richard smiled his cute smile, and replied, as if it were simple: “No one’s ever looked at me the way you do.” 

  


“Severin, you’re here!” Richard called from across the park as if, after all this time, there could possibly be a Sunday when Severin would not show up. 

When he reached Severin’s table, however, he didn’t sit down. 

“My friends are I are having a picnic right now,” Richard said excitedly. “They should be here in five minutes.” 

Severin tried not to show his annoyance. He wouldn’t be able to leave, now, for some time: He would have to feign interest in his book, even while Richard was across the park with his friends. If he left right away it would be obvious he only ever came for Richard. Which was probably obvious anyway, but also pathetic. But by staying, he would have to see Richard’s friends, and, from across the park, Severin knew he would dissolve in jealousy. 

“That’s great,” Severin said gruffly, and reached for the book in his bag. 

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Richard said. “I’ve told them all about you. Or – what I don’t know about you.” His eyes twinkled. “They think you’re very mysterious.” 

Severin saw, then, a group of people waving at Richard from the grass. To his surprise, Richard’s friends were considerably older than Richard: Not Severin’s age, of course, but in their mid- and late-twenties. 

Severin rose, inexplicably joyful that Richard was able to develop friendships with people much older than himself. 

When Richard saw Severin’s smile, he laughed. It was a happy sound without a hint of malice; he took Severin’s hand and led him to his friends’ blanket. His hand did not merely grasp, but brushed against Severin’s skin, and for the first time Severin knew with certainty that it was soft. 

Severin had never truly conversed with Richard before. Now he wondered how Richard had tolerated it. Richard was garrulous amongst his friends, who despite being his elders seemed to know him well. It soon became clear why: All of his friends were actors. 

“Are you an actor?” Severin asked Richard, breaking into the middle of a conversation. Everyone stared at him; it was the first he’d spoken since mumbling bland introductory comments. 

“I am,” Richard said, brightening. 

A young actor in an adult’s theater group. Severin said nothing, listening as Richard resumed his conversation. He must be quite a good actor, to act amongst more experienced professionals. Severin liked the thought of Richard being competent, as if it somehow levelled their playing ground, made it less loathsome for Severin to want him so badly. 

He tried to remember everything Richard said, which was impossible, because Richard wouldn’t stop talking. Somehow other schoolboys hadn’t tarnished him: He still had a boyishly cute, innocent sense of humor. He never laughed at his friends’ rowdy jokes, although neither was he ever impolite. Richard was bright, dazzling. Severin wondered why he’d been invited to Richard’s picnic. 

  


After that, they spoke. Severin wasn’t so afraid of tainting Richard, now that he knew he had adult friends. And, more to the point, Severin found Richard’s voice, cadence, words, and laughter so tantalizing that silence seemed a waste. He talked to keep Richard talking. 

Richard was bizarrely precocious for a sixteen year-old. He could keep up with Severin intellectually, and it lessened Severin’s guilt. As if Richard’s vast knowledge of music, art, theater, and literature somehow made it less illegal to adore, utterly and entirely, a minor. 

  


When Richard didn’t show up one Sunday, Severin waited several hours. When the sun was setting and the schoolchildren were all stopping by the park before heading home, Severin stood, lifted his flimsy metal table, and threw it across the lawn. 

He was kicked out of the park, although he would have left anyway. 

He knew nothing about Richard. He didn’t have his address, his number, his last name. Richard could never come to this park again, Severin could never see him again. London was vast, millions of faces flitting past him on the street every day, and a lifetime could pass without the right face ever coming by. 

At the thought, Severin went home and wept bitterly. He didn’t have a picture of Richard, a recording of his voice. It was like someone had died. It was like the riverbed had finally dried up, and Severin was left alone in the desert, alone with his unquenched thirst. 

  


The next Sunday he chose to sit against a tree, facing in the opposite direction he typically sat in, as if hoping that, should Richard come, he wouldn’t be able to find Severin. 

Finally he decided it was petty and cruel to make things difficult for a sixteen year-old. He emerged from behind the tree, looking for an open table to sit at. Richard, who’d been standing in the center of the park, suddenly spotted him and came running. 

“I’m sorry,” Severin said. 

Although Richard couldn’t possibly know what he was apologizing for, Richard said, “It’s okay,” and hugged him. 

The hug was sudden. Severin stood with baited breath, not daring to return the embrace. Afraid that if he had Richard pressed against his body he wouldn’t be able to let go. 

Richard didn’t seem to notice that the hug wasn’t returned. Instead he said, “Let’s sit in the grass today?” 

Severin nodded numbly. Without the chairs interfering, Richard sat closer than ever. His knee threatened to touch Severin’s leg with any sudden movement. Severin was achingly aware of the heat radiating from it. 

Suddenly Richard leaned forward and kissed Severin’s cheek. He laughed, probably at the look on Severin’s face, and said, “I love it when I can surprise you. You’re so stoic, Severin. I hope you didn’t miss me last week?” 

“Of course not,” said Severin. Although. “Where were you?” 

“It was my birthday. I would have invited you, but it was a last minute thing. My friends took me out to tea,” said Richard. 

“You like tea?” Severin could see it now, Richard’s lips pressed against a mug, the beautiful way his throat would quiver as he swallowed. 

“I do,” Richard said, and it was obvious he had something else to say. “Severin?” 

“Yes?” asked Severin cautiously, afraid, again, that Richard was going to leave. 

“Can I have your phone number?” 

Severin gaped. 

“I know you don’t talk much,” Richard said quickly, “but I can text you. And I’d only do it for things like last Sunday. You could have come to tea with us, if you’d wanted.” 

In just a few seconds, Severin envisioned an alternative reality, where he was younger and Richard had his phone number. He’d be a glad slave to the phone, to the whims of Richard; every single second would be electric, as any moment could herald Richard’s call. He wondered what Richard’s voice would sound like on the other end of a phone line. 

“No,” he said firmly. “Sorry, Richard, but I can’t.” 

“Do you not have a phone?” Richard asked. 

Severin closed his eyes. How to explain this without hurting a fragile boy’s feelings? 

“I do,” he said, “but I’m not going to give it to you.” 

“Right.” Severin was startled to see the hurt in Richard’s face; the wobbling bottom lip, the wide eyes. Richard quickly smiled, though, and changed topics. 

Soon, Richard shifted, and there was a lot more space between them on the grass. 

  


“I got you this.” Severin shoved it into Richard’s hands before they greeted each other. Severin had wrapped it himself, and he’d thought he’d done a good job until it was in Richard’s hands, when suddenly all of the uneven and excessively-taped imperfections became apparent. “It’s for your belated birthday.” 

“It’s a book,” Richard announced happily, able to tell from its weight and size. He pressed the wrapped package against his chest, squeezing. “Wow. How lovely! It’s been ages since anyone’s bought me a book. Adults read less and less now, don’t they?” 

Richard thought his newest birthday made him an adult? Cute. Severin supposed that he, too, at Richard’s age, had thought himself a man. 

Richard unwrapped the package very carefully, not ripping the wrapping paper, although Severin wasn’t sure why. There wasn’t anything special about it. 

Severin had considered getting Richard _Lolita,_ out of some ironic perversion, but decided instead to get the poetry of Catullus. Which, considering the Ancient Roman affinity for young boys, was still sickly ironic. 

“Ooh, I haven’t read Catullus since I was fifteen,” Richard said, looking genuinely delighted. 

It hadn’t been too long, then, but Severin thought endearingly that just a few years could seem a lot to a teenager. 

He said, “How old are you now, Richard?” 

Seventeen? Maybe just sixteen? 

Richard looked up, smiling proudly. “This year was the big one.” 

Sixteen, then. 

“Thirty,” said Richard. 

Severin swung his head back and laughed. When he settled again, he said, “You don’t have to tell me, I suppose.” 

“Sorry?” said Richard. 

“I know you’re not thirty, Richard,” Severin said gently. 

“Oh, stop it,” Richard said, his cheeks turning an adorable pink. “You can’t imagine how often people tease me.” 

“I’m not teasing you,” Severin assured. 

“I haven’t looked my age since my first year of uni,” Richard said. “I kept thinking I’d grow out of it in my twenties, but here I am. Thirty and two weeks, looking hardly twenty-five.” 

There was something so unconsciously sincere about Richard’s words that Severin had to look at Richard anew, actually considering his features as if he were thirty. 

Richard seemed to sense what Severin was doing and looked back at him, suppressing a smile. His cute, delicate features weren’t that of a man; neither was his sweet voice. 

“How old did you think I was, Severin?” Richard asked. 

“Sixteen,” Severin said. “Maybe fifteen.” 

Now it was Richard who burst out laughing. “You’re horrible, Severin! You know, even I have a certain masculine pride.” 

Suddenly Severin could tell that Richard definitely wasn’t joking. 

“You’re thirty, Richard?” Severin asked. 

“Uh-huh. Don’t look so shocked,” said Richard. 

“I’m thirty-eight.” Thirty. Thirty-eight. Thirty. Thirty-eight. It sounded perfect, had a ring to it; the matching decades. Thirty. Thirty-eight. 

Severin reached for his bag, digging for a pen and paper. When he retrieved it and started scribbling, Richard said, “What are you writing?” 

“My address. And phone number. And e-mail. And my name. My last name’s Moran, Richard. I’m Severin Augustus Moran.” Severin wrote rapidly, paused to make sure it was still legible, and shoved the paper into Richard’s hand. “Call me whenever you like. Do you want tea, right now? It’s too cold to be sitting in the park.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so much at once,” Richard said. He folded the paper neatly and placed it in his pocket. “I’d love tea, Severin Augustus Moran.” 

Severin stood and offered his hand to Richard, to help him up. Severin had never initiated contact before, so certain he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started. His hypothesis was proven correct: He kept holding on to Richard’s hand all the way to the café. 

“You seem so different,” Richard remarked over their drinks. Richard ended up going for a hot cocoa. “You’re…” 

Severin saw it himself. He was leaning forward, to make up for the space between them, and his knees brushed Richard’s beneath the table. Every now and then he stroked Richard’s hand, offered Richard a taste of his black tea. 

“It’s like something’s changed,” Richard said. “But it’s nice.” 

“It’s all different now,” Severin said, an explanation that wasn’t an explanation at all. “Richard?” 

“Yes?” Richard smiled when he said his name. Suddenly Severin could see what he’d been willfully blinding himself to: Richard was besotted with Severin. 

“Why did you keep coming to the park on Sundays?” 

“Well.” Richard paused, thinking. “You’re… You’re very handsome, you know.” 

Richard’s cheeks glowed faintly pink, but he’d never have any idea how Severin’s stomach flipped at the statement. Even he himself was surprised to realize how much he must have been yearning for Richard’s approval. His body was old and war-worn and scarred, but if Richard thought otherwise then he wouldn’t argue. 

“And so when I kept looking at you at the park, the first day,” Richard continued, “and you eventually caught me, I just… I don’t know. You wouldn’t look away, but you didn’t seem angry at me, for having been watching you. I just had the sudden feeling that I needed to know you.” 

“Watching me?” Severin breathed. 

“And then you did that,” Richard said softly. 

“Did what?” Severin asked. 

“Looked at me the way you’re looking at me now. Like…” Richard lowered his eyes. “You have these blue eyes, and they just…” 

He made a vague motion with his hands, didn’t raise his eyes, and stopped speaking. His cheeks were nicely pink. 

“Severin?” he said finally. 

“Richard?” said Severin. 

“Do you think, after this, you’d like to come to my flat?” Oh, that sweet, fair skin was now the shade of a maraschino cherry. 

“I think I’d go mad if I didn’t,” Severin said. They asked for the bill. 

  


Before entering the flat, Severin was fully prepared with a list of comments and compliments regarding what he knew he’d find inside: a plethora of books, records, and films. But Richard barely gave him a chance to step inside and register the massive bookcase that towered where most people would situate a television, before he was stepping out of his shoes, socks, coat, and – shirt. 

Richard, for one, had no intention of feigning any pretexts. Severin watched hungrily as Richard’s fingers worked open his buttons one by one, revealing an extra inch of pale, tantalizing skin each time. 

Richard rented his own flat. He lived alone, like an adult, a bachelor, and clearly, from how hastily he was getting undressed, was no stranger to sex. 

“I’m so glad you’re not sixteen,” Severin said. 

Richard suddenly laughed. “Oh, god. I am acting like a teenager, though, aren’t I? Can we go to the bedroom?” 

His eyes couldn’t leave Richard’s body, but he nodded. 

Richard led the way down a hall, and closed the door behind them once they entered his room. Severin registered nothing but the bed. The bed, and the sound of Richard’s shirt falling to the floor. 

He saw only a flash of Richard’s now-bare torso before he was on Richard, grabbing him and pinning him on the bed. 

“Oh,” Richard breathed, as his head fell back against his duvet. Severin towered over him, hands pressing lightly against Richard’s shoulders. 

He kissed, hungry, finding immediately that Richard was an excellent kisser. It was a soft, nuanced kiss, Severin running his hand through Richard’s hair. His tongue skimmed Richard’s bottom lip, and he took note of Richard’s closed eyes, flushed cheeks. Richard still didn’t look thirty to him. He looked like a boy at Eton, liked they could be kissing hurriedly between class, hidden away in their dorm. 

That was fine with Severin. 

“Oooh…” Richard released a rewarding, shaky breath. “I didn’t think you’d be such a passionate kisser.” 

Severin momentarily drew away at hearing that, insulted. But, of course, he had been silent, stoic, withdrawn, and _weird_ for most of their interactions. Richard didn’t know Severin’s personality. It was a miracle, really, that Severin was in bed with Richard at all. 

He disguised the reason for his withdrawal by sitting up, thighs on either side of Richard and knees pressing into the bed, and reaching for his belt buckle. He unzipped his trousers; he and Richard stared at each other for a second, simultaneously realizing the impossibility of undressing in their current position, and Severin reluctantly stood up. He made quick work of his clothes and then, with Richard still lying down, unzipped and pulled off Richard’s jeans. 

Richard lifted his legs accommodatingly, but Severin could feel Richard’s eyes, scanning him up and down. The army hadn’t allowed for any self-consciousness, but Severin wondered what Richard saw. Scars, uneven skin pigmentation from being baked raw in the Iraq sun, the remnants of war wounds and general, bodily misuse. 

Richard said, “You’re really…fit,” and swallowed. 

Severin grinned. He could take that. 

Richard himself was a pale, scrawny, little thing. He had rosy lips and cute pink nipples, and a sweet, bubblegum cock that was, most satisfyingly, half-hard in anticipation. 

“You’re fuckable,” Severin said simply, and dove back in. 

Richard moaned and squirmed beneath Severin’s onslaught of kisses; Severin couldn’t help but break apart and laugh, before kissing him again. He reacted adorably to being overwhelmed: becoming breathless, that gorgeous flush sweeping all the way to his shoulders, his hips grinding against Severin’s. 

“Where’s your lube?” Severin’s mouth was against Richard’s ear. 

“Mm… Bedside table. Drawer. Oh!” Richard closed his eyes as Severin’s tongue tickled the lobe of his ear, before Severin stretched and reached for the lube. Luckily the condoms were in the same place. 

Part of Severin wanted to flip Richard over. He knew Richard had a delicious arse because he’d checked. Many times. Richard wore tight jeans. 

He didn’t move Richard, though, except to spread his legs and prop him up properly. He wanted to see Richard’s face. He knew he could if he wanted to: Richard was completely compliant. It suited Severin; he was feeling dominant. 

“Mmm…” A bit bottom lip. “Your finger is all rough, Severin.” 

“Does it hurt?” Severin asked. He knew his hands were calloused. 

“G-good. It’s good.” Evidently it was, because Richard was grinding on his finger, wanting it deeper. 

Severin worked Richard open slowly. He felt like he was at a buffet, could take whatever he wanted, however much he wanted. Everywhere he touched, every way he stroked, Richard seemed to love. 

Richard’s whimpers finally brought from Severin some mercy, as he pressed his cock against Richard’s hole. He slowed, in case Richard should change his mind. 

“Fuck, yes, yes, please.” He’d barely paused before Richard resorted to begging. 

Severin caught Richard’s lips in mid-plead, and he thrust. Richard clung to him, arms around his neck and back. Their open mouths panted against each other, exchanging breaths, as kissing became too much of a distraction. Richard was tight, forcing from Severin his own ecstatic groans. He thrust deeper, trying to maintain his control, uncertain if Richard was accustomed to his kind of girth, before Richard whispered, “Harder?” 

“Mm,” said Severin in assent, and soon Richard’s whimpers turned to full-fledged cries. 

Still, he begged, “Harder harder harder, please please please.” 

“Fuck – _yes,”_ Severin growled. 

Richard still clung to him, though, in a way that made for challenging thrusting. He grabbed Richard’s arms and pinned them above his head, against the mattress, holding him down while he fucked. 

His body was on fire, all of his energy coiled at his cock, and he had barely enough concentration left to register Richard’s sobs. Who knew he’d be so vocal? All of his noises, though, were going to make Severin – 

_“Fuck.”_ Severin’s teeth grinded together, lips pulled back. He grunted, pounding Richard into the bed, hand swinging down and grabbing onto Richard’s cock. 

That did it. He could see the precise moment in Richard’s eyes: Richard was gone, utterly, as waves of ecstasy washed through his body. 

Then Severin’s own orgasm overtook him, and his eyes squeezed shut. 

He let go of Richard’s arms, still thrusting, slowing his rhythm. He milked them both for every last drop of pleasure, until finally Richard emitted a low yelp. 

He pulled out, slowly, and collapsed at Richard’s side. 

Moments passed as they both caught their breath. 

“Fuck,” Severin said again. 

“Fuck,” Richard agreed. There was something enticing about him cursing, even when Severin was post-coital. 

Feeling a sudden urge of affection, Severin reached out and scooped Richard towards him. Richard was pressed against his chest. 

“Cutie,” Severin said, and kissed the top of Richard’s head. 

Richard smiled, looking delighted. Then he yawned, pressing his mouth against Severin’s chest to stifle it. 

“I’m sleepy…” he sighed. 

“Do you want me to go?” Severin asked, not wanting to overstay his welcome, even though his limbs felt boneless and deliciously tired. 

Richard shook his head. 

“I could go for a nap,” Severin suggested. 

Wordlessly, Richard pressed his head against Severin’s chest, a soft smile on his lips. Then, as if he’d forgotten something, he lifted his head again, pressed a single, decisive kiss against Severin’s peck, and resumed his former position. He closed his eyes, and that was that. 

They were both peacefully asleep in minutes. 


End file.
